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The Root of the Matter: The American Puritans Book One

By Lynne Basham Tagawa

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“I ask the way to lost Zion; I witness what I believe…”
Roger Williams, letter to John Winthrop, 1636
I was worried about Dr. Howard, but I forced my concerns away and thought instead of the luscious chocolate croissant I’d had for breakfast.
And the precious discovery before me.
Conscious of the CarbonFilm gloves encasing my hands, I slid the yellowed paper onto the Archive’s reading stand. The document had been restored and treated to resist further damage, but the protection was only a dozen molecules thick, so I took every precaution. 
I inhaled slowly and purposefully, but my pulse thrummed in my ears. Most of our collections were in the Cloud for researchers, but some things weren’t. Certainly not new finds. This discovery was huge. At least for me. 
Water damage blurred the salutation, but I could make out the recipient—Williams. Roger Williams. The beleaguered founder of Rhode Island.
A tingle shot up my spine. 
John Winthrop and Roger Williams had corresponded until Winthrop’s death, so this wasn’t a total surprise. Still, it was an amazing discovery. And just in time. I needed everything I could get my hands on if I was to come up with a truly meaningful thesis on Winthrop. What motivated the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony? Even now Dr. Howard was preparing for a research Trip focused on those two men.
I scowled, knowing how he’d approach the issue.
The document reclaimed my attention. The content was similar to another of his letters. Practical advice plus theological questions. Between the lines, I imagined Winthrop pleading—
Did you really have to do this?
There was nothing new here. I would have to keep looking for the bombshell I needed.
My gaze fell upon his signature. 
John Winthrop.
Such well-formed letters. Controlled, perfect lines. Beautiful script.
My job was to compile facts here in the Archives, helping Travelers to make sense of their destinations. What I wanted to do was figure out what these people were like as individuals. It was hard to believe Winthrop was a rigid, autocratic zealot as some seemed to think. Everything I’d read—his letters, his diary—spoke of a tender-hearted man.
I’d read a book on handwriting analysis once. What did his handwriting reveal? The careful discipline of the familiar signature was broken by a tiny flourish.
The book would say he was self-possessed. Confident, but not egotistical. And the curlicue?
Winthrop’s personality slipping through the control. Did he have a sense of humor?
“Good morning, Dr. Howard.” My assistant Lucy’s strained voice filtered through the door to her office. “I will let her know—”
The door pushed open, none too gently. Dr. Howard, the senior Traveler, strode into the room, his facial hair trimmed into a goatee. His jerkin and breeches announced his destination as he always wore period clothing close to a Trip. He tossed a Pad at me, and I lunged to catch it lest it damage the ancient paper. “Geneva Fielding!” He spat my name like a curse word, dark eyes blazing. “It’s your fault!”
Dr. Howard was preparing to Travel to 1631 Massachusetts. What I wouldn’t give to be a bug on his shoulder. John Winthrop, Roger Williams. The conflict, the trial. But traveling through time? No.
“What’s wrong?” The Pad revealed Dr. Howard’s test score. Not a good one. 
He glared at me. “They told me you wrote the theology test.”
“It was s—” Simple. No, rephrase that. “Theology can be difficult.”
His face glowed cherry red above his stocky shoulders. “The drop date can’t be changed.” He paced a circle. “Peter said so.”
“When do you leave?” It was soon, I knew. The rules were strict on preparation to go to another time. Language, customs—including theology, in this case—medical, costume. He’d have run the gamut already.
“Three days.”
“Oh.” My worst fears were realized. He’d have to pass it by tomorrow. I scrolled through the results of his test on his Pad. He’d missed antinomianism by a mile. And his answers regarding schism and separation were simplistic. Separation was the core of what Roger Williams was all about, the source of the initial conflict. He maintained the churches in New England should completely separate from the Church of England.
Of course, Dr. Howard didn’t have to believe the theology. Who did? But he couldn’t ignore it. And it wasn’t just a theological dispute. There were political implications. Dr. Howard was totally unprepared for his destination. 
My shoulders slumped. It was my fault. I should have made sure he took the test two months ago.
“Look,” he said. “Theology wasn’t everything. The Charter was a business document!”
“The dean needs to know,” I said to his back.
The Archives door swung wildly behind him. 
There must be a way to salvage this mission. I’d find a way. I needed whatever information Dr. Howard could muster from this Trip for my thesis, even if his prejudices corrupted his observations.
I pulled my hair from its elastic and smoothed it before finagling it into a new bun.
Peter. I’d talk to Peter.
* * *
I reached for the pump bottle on my desk and squirted lotion on my hands. But for once, the scent of chocolate and mint failed to comfort me. I left the Archives and crossed to the Launch Room.
No Peter.
I skipped the elevator and made for the stairs, wanting to stir my circulation. I crossed the first-floor atrium and scanned the carrels. 
No dark, curly head.
I finally spotted Peter in the cafeteria, filling a CarbonFoam cup with coffee from the dispenser. 
More like sludge than coffee, but it was warm, and the Archives were cold, taking up half of the subbasement. The sensitive Travel apparatus filled the other half. Peter, head of the techies, was wearing a thick blue turtleneck, sensible clothing for both summer and winter in our work environment.
I joined him at the dispenser and filled a cup. “Peter, we need to talk.”
He lifted his brows and motioned toward a booth. “Is it Dr. Howard?”
I blew on my coffee, still dark after a good dollop of fake cream. “How did you know?”
“Saw him in the hall, looking red in the face. Is it the theology test?”
I slumped in my seat. “Yes. It wasn’t a near miss, either. He botched it.”
“You know his preconceived notions about New England in general.”
Peter’s dark eyes were calm in his youthful face. He was a physicist, not a historian. And not a Traveler. 
“I didn’t realize you knew that much about it.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Because I run the techie side of things?”
“Yeah, I’m guilty of false preconceptions about physicists. And yes, I’m aware of his notions. He should stick to the nineteenth century.”
“He’s not the only one. It’s hard for folks today to understand why people left England and settled these cold, rocky shores.”
Peter surprised me sometimes. But he was a friend, one of the few in this place. Okay, granted, I was an introvert and loved paper and old relics better than socializing. Peter was just plain easy to be around. I didn’t feel exhausted after talking to him.
The dean would need to know about Dr. Howard, and when he did, there’d be a meeting, I was sure. “Join me for an early lunch?”
He nodded, and we joined the line. Burgers—probably lab-grown meat—and chicken. At the end of the row, slabs of meatloaf lay like dominoes in a tray. Peter chose the meatloaf.
I gave him a pointed glance.
“You can put ketchup on it,” he said.
Ketchup could also doctor burgers. I slid one onto my tray.
We returned to our seats and the conversation. 
“Dr. Howard said the drop date can’t be changed.”
Peter didn’t respond at first, his mouth occupied with meatloaf. He swallowed. “Not exactly true. But the math shows a good window in a limited number of places. There’s this one in the winter of 1630 with extraction in the summer of the next year. We’ve nailed it down well. But the way the math works on this end, it has to be either three days from now or two years from now.”
“Two years?” No wonder Dr. Howard was mad. “But Peter, we are traveling a discrete number of years in the past. That doesn’t change. So how—”
He raised his hand while he swallowed another bite. “It’s a complex calculation involving space as well as time. You see, the solar system travels through the galaxy at a certain rate. Our Earth describes a spiral motion as we travel forward in time. Think of two trains on separate tracks. To jump from one to the other, the tracks need to be close together. And the motion of the two trains needs to align.”
I stared at the limp lettuce inside the burger. “In three days, the motion will be similar.”
He shrugged. “Kind of. The math works.”
I shivered at the thought of trusting math for Traveling. But we’d never lost a Traveler. Not yet. It was dangerous in a multitude of ways, but careful preparation reduced some hazards.
“Peter, I don’t want to miss this window.”
He set down his fork. “What are you suggesting?”
“Hey, Gen!” Lucy’s round face appeared at the entrance, strands of hair escaping from the perfect shell of her blonde bob. “Dean Hutchinson has called a meeting.”
I stuffed the last bite of my burger into my mouth. At least I wouldn’t face this on an empty stomach.
* * *
On the way to the meeting, I passed the dean’s office. The brass plate on the closed door proclaimed Dean of Applied History in nearly unreadable, fancy script. Nearby, the doors to the conference room were open. I entered to see Houghton Library through the large multi-paned windows. An underground tunnel connected it to the Archives. 
I waited for everyone to arrive. It was chilly in the library too, but at least only in winter, when the cold found its way through every crack and windowsill. I tugged at my cardigan, thankful for the leggings beneath my skirt. 
Dean Hutchinson plopped down at the head of the polished table, and I found a place next to Peter. The Chairs—a ridiculous title for the heads of various offices—trickled in. 
Dressed in an eighteenth-century bodice and skirt, Candy Jeffries from Costumes found a seat near me. Ancient clothing usually looked warm. Maybe that’s why she wore it all the time. The doctor from Medical came in and sat next to her, looking put upon. He often dozed during these meetings. 
The dean glanced up. In the doorway stood Dr. Howard, still in costume. All he lacked was a cutlass to be a pirate.
“Come in.” The dean’s voice was curt. “Madeline?”
His secretary scurried to his side, tottering on pink stilettos. I wriggled my toes inside my comfortable slip-ons, in pain just watching her move. 
Madeline produced what seemed like reams of paper from a satchel and placed them on the table before her boss. Rather old-fashioned, but the dean insisted on hard copies of everything, one of the few things I liked about him.
“Mr. Rice, have a seat.” The dean waved the prop master inside. 
Wearing a heavy blacksmith’s apron over his jeans and tee, Scott Rice was the craftsman who headed up the section of Candy’s department that dealt with tools and other supplies. He was not a Chair, but he often attended these meetings as he had to have a heads-up on Traveling news. He chose a seat and his long legs vanished under the mahogany tabletop.
The dean shoveled copies down the table. “We have a decision to make. Dr. Howard will not be ready for the Trip. Our first concern is safety, but we have an obligation to donors and researchers. The Department of Applied History is not an entity with its own goals.” 
That sounded ominous.
He scanned the group, his beady brown eyes lingering on Dr. Howard, then sliding to me.
I avoided his gaze and reached for my copy of whatever it was—minutes of their last meeting? The current proposals? Each Trip was scheduled as a result of someone’s research. Competing proposals were examined and the most promising selected. The whole preparation for the Trip in question had been months in the making. No wonder Dr. Howard was slumping in his seat.
John Winthrop’s Commercial Motives in Moving the Charter to New England—the title of the grant revealed what kind of details Dr. Howard would have been looking for. It was right up his ideological alley. But why were we seeing this now? We’d already approved this. Well, my consent was under protest. As was my vote for the second grant, which I found on the second page.
Roger Williams’s Suffering: The Danger of Organized Religion. I sighed. Religion was ubiquitous in those days. Folks who should have known better judged these people by modern sensibilities. Almost everyone I knew in colonial history took Williams’s part in the conflict—and demonized Winthrop.
These were the two proposals Dr. Howard was supposed to Travel to investigate. I snuck a glance at the dean. He wasn’t going to cancel the Trip. 
“A lot of money hinges on this. And next year’s budget. Some whisper this department doesn’t pull its weight. We’re more or less secret, after all.”
My stomach sank. He’d never spoken like this. I loved what I did, Dr. Howard notwithstanding. Defunding the department would throw me out of a job.
I looked at Candy. She was provisionally qualified to Travel. Several of us had gone through training. And Candy would gather data without layering on a gloss of prejudice. Dr. Howard wouldn’t like it, but she could go.
Candy even looked the part, her glossy chestnut hair partially covered by a mobcap. 
The dean was talking. “… can’t wait two years. How many of you have been provisionally certified?”
I made myself small in my seat.
Candy lifted her hand. Reluctantly, I raised mine, and to my surprise, Peter followed suit.
But Scott was shaking his head no, his black ponytail swinging. He’d failed the medical screening, I remembered now. Certain conditions, such as those requiring medication, were problematic for Travel. For some reason, Scott’s seizure disorder could not be corrected by nanosurgical techniques or viral gene splicing. 
The dean had fixed his eye on me. “Miss Fielding, you have the historical expertise. But I cannot send you alone.”
What? I glanced at Candy, who merely shrugged.
“Dr. Donatelli, can you pass a theology test?” the dean asked.
“Give me a day to prepare.”
I turned to Peter in astonishment. Even if he did pass, how could we be ready in just seventy-two hours?
And that wasn’t all.
I swallowed and took a slow, deep breath. I couldn’t have a panic attack now.


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